


The Annabelle Years

by ftlow



Series: Creating Military Intelligence: Group 7 [2]
Category: St Trinian's (2007 2009)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow
Summary: Annabelle came to the worst school in the country from one of the best. It was hardly plain sailing... but she got there in the end, learned some hard lessons, and made some fast friends. What did we miss on screen?
Series: Creating Military Intelligence: Group 7 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162346
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	1. Becoming a St. Trinian

Annabelle Fritton was colouring on a piece of paper in the office of the Fritton Gallery, Mayfair. Every now and then, she lifted her page up to compare the bright, jerky stripes of colour to the delicate example of pointillism leaning on the printer, waiting for its frame. To anyone else, the images were completely different, but to Annabelle’s four-year-old mind, her jabs and squiggles outlined all the shapes that Mettzinger had achieved with dots; Annabelle was simply re-imagining the Woman with a Hat. And she was so going to give it a more creative name. Maybe something to do with the bow? It was a big feature, after all.

This was Annabelle’s earliest memory. Drawing, art, the gallery, and words - titling the picture. Even at this young age, she was a creative - an artist, a writer. She lived and breathed the gallery and every piece that came through its doors, from the moment she could crawl and hold a pen.

In the main gallery room next door, her father was moving paintings around. He had a big night coming up - Annabelle wasn’t sure what or when, but everything was being moved for it. He had a stepladder and a spirit level; although the tot didn’t know what they were called at the time, she knew that he was making sure everything was perfect. It gave her the impression of grandeur about her father’s gallery that she carried for many years.

Yet underneath the grandeur, another, fuzzier, memory lurked. It came back to her, when she went to St. Trinian’s; when her father was exposed. 

She was putting the finishing touches on her bow - trying to colour jerkily over the few dots she had placed in a half-hearted attempt to copy the pointillism before realising how long it would take her - when the main gallery door opened. The hinges squealed quietly but distinctively every time.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet.” Her father’s voice rang out in that cutting, but soft tone that authoritative people use in church. “I’m just preparing for an exhibition.”

“Not here for the pictures, old man. You’ve pissed off my boss.” A gruff, loud voice replied. 

Annabelle slid quietly from the swivel chair she’d been curled into, landing silently under the desk. She slithered out between the posts and tiptoed to the door to look through the crack. A huge, hairy man towered over her father. He had baggy clothes and a big gold chain, and her father took a step back as she watched.

“And who would your boss be?” He asked, drawing himself up to his full height.

“He sold you a painting, and you ain’t paid up.” The bear of a man stepped forwards. Annabelle didn’t like his tone, and she pulled the door open and toddled out. 

“Ah, Mister Peyton then, I presume. My most recent purchase. I paid half of the billed price, as agreed, and then checked the item on delivery. It is fake.”

The man sneered. “Isn’t half your stuff fake, Fritton? Look at this place.”

Annabelle was upset at that. The gallery was beautiful to anyone her height and age. It looked smooth and polished and upmarket, and it had beautiful art in it. “Leave my daddy alone.” She demanded bravely, ambling on unsteady feet in her little sandals to a stop between the two men and folding her arms across her chest.

Carnaby stared down at her, surprise all over his face. The stranger did the same, and then - after a beat - began to laugh.

“Well, little girl, I won’t be long here. Run along now, and I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

Annabelle unfolded her arms and stuck her lip out. “Quickly, please. I don’t like you very much,” She said with all the frankness of an unsocialised toddler. The man laughed harder, delighted with her, and shoved his hands in his pockets. Something metal flashed in the strip lighting, black and shiny, somehow deadly-looking.

“It’s quite simple, Fritton. Either pay the rest of the money you owe, or return the painting.”

“Will my money be refunded if I return the painting?”

“What do you think?”

Carnaby sighed. “It’s in the office.” He gestured. “On the desk.”

Annabelle’s ears pricked. “Don’t touch my drawing!” She cried.

“Don’t worry, little girl. I’m not interested in your pictures.” He disappeared into the office and emerged moments later, the Mettzinger tucked beneath his arm. “Pleasure doing business with you,” He said sarcastically, and turned to leave. Annabelle thought she saw the glint of metal again in his pocket.

“Bye!” She cried on a whim, waving. The door slammed shut behind him.

She turned to her father, whose face was ashen. “Don’t ever do that again.” He told her fiercely, kneeling down and hugging her tightly.

“Do what, daddy?” She asked, burying her face in his shoulder. 

“Come out here when I haven’t asked you to. Come close to men like that.” He gripped the tops of her spindly arms painfully tightly and she whimpered.

“But he bought a painting, daddy. That’s good.”

“He didn’t buy it,” Carnaby spat angrily, his concern for his daughter beginning to be eclipsed by the effect this was going to have on his profit margins. “It cost me forty grand.” He let go abruptly and stood up.

“It’s okay, daddy. I copied it and made a new one.”

Annabelle hurried into the office, hoping her picture could lift her father’s suddenly sour mood. He followed slowly, scowling.

She grabbed her paper from the desk and thrust it at him, proud of the shapes she’d created, the curve of the bow and the features of the face. In all honestly it wasn’t bad, for her age. Carnaby stared at it for a moment, and a hollow laugh bubbled out of his throat. He squeezed the paper so tight, it crumpled and tore at the edges, and he ripped it in half with an enraged shout and turned away, slamming the door as he left.

In the darkening office, Annabelle collected the creased halves of her drawing, sniffling.

* * *

Annabelle didn’t remember the first time she put on her school uniform, or arriving for her first day. She wasn’t sure any more that her father had taken her. She didn’t even remember her first impression of the school, or the students. Her first memory was of already being sorted onto tables in the classroom, and her part of the register being taken. 

“Matilda Eden.” 

“Yes, miss.”

“Emily Fairhead.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Annabelle Fritton.”

Annabelle swallowed. “Yes, miss.” She squeaked. A boy sat opposite her laughed. 

“Fritton?” He asked. Annabelle stared at him. “As in, the Fritton Gallery?” He expanded. Annabelle nodded slowly. She’d never really met another child before. This boy was shorter than she was, but he scared her more than any adult ever had. He laughed again, glancing at his neighbour. 

“Enough, Toby,” The teaching assistant snapped at the boy. “That’s not a good way to start the year.”

Annabelle was flummoxed. She just put her head down and looked at the table as name after name was called. Why wasn't her father’s gallery being famous a good thing?

* * *

“Hey, Fritton. Your dad doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for.”

Annabelle stopped and turned around, squinting up at the boy who was stood on the top of the climbing apparatus, bathed in sunlight. 

“You know my daddy?” She asked, smiling. 

“No. But I know people who do.” Toby bared his teeth in a feral smile. “He should learn better manners. Everyone knows you pay for things you buy.”

Annabelle didn’t understand what that meant, so she changed the subject. 

“Daddy’s fixing a car.” She said earnestly. “It’s a classic, he said. Like the art in the gallery. It’s old and he’s making it work again so people can see it still, so it doesn’t die.”

Toby sighed. “Ponce.” He replied. “Just flashing his cash.”

Annabelle frowned. She didn’t like Toby very much, and she didn’t think he liked her either.

* * *

“I told you, Carnaby, don’t get involved with these people! It won’t do the business any good! And now look where you’ve got us!”

“Anita, really, it’s nothing I can’t handle -”

“Handle?” The woman’s voice was shrill. “Handle? The Gallery made the news! The Metro, no less - every commuter will have seen it!”

“It’s graffiti, Nita, it will wash. It’s a childish attack on classical art. Nothing damaging.”

“It’s a gang symbol, Carnaby. Stop burying your head in the sand. You got in with the wrong crowd and you’ve endangered us all.”

Annabelle heard her father sigh. “It’s all sorted now. It won’t happen again.”

“You said that last time.”

There was silence, and Annabelle stood in the darkness of the hallway, unable to summon up the courage to open the door. Her pyjamas were wet and she clutched her teddy in one hand, clenching her teeth. She was too old for this sort of accident, and clearly her parents weren’t in the mood for it.

She stumbled back up the corridor, pulled her pyjamas off, peeled back the sheets, and felt her eyes moisten as she realised even the mattress was wet. 

Tugging a blanket from the wardrobe, she rolled herself up in it and curled on the rug, shivering. Her eyes closed of their own accord, but she could still hear her parents’ voices, getting louder and mingling together in her confused semi-conscious state.  
Then the door slammed, and it was quiet.

* * *

“So, Annabelle. How have you found your first term?” Mr Hix, their young teacher, was doing one-to-one meetings for all the new pupils while the TA who always did their register supervised some activities. Annabelle didn’t think the teacher liked kids very much. He spoke to them all like they were very small, and she was already six, one of the oldest in her year.

“I like our artwork.” She scratched at the paint on her sweater sleeve. “But daddy might be angry I got paint on my new uniform.”

“Won’t mummy wash it for you?”

“My mummy went away after her and daddy argued.” Annabelle shrugged. “Maybe when she comes back.”

Her teacher looked at her for a moment, and Annabelle looked back, intrigued. “Will you tell me, when she does?” He asked finally. 

“Okay.” Annabelle agreed easily, and swung her legs back and forth. “I haven’t made any friends yet. I don’t think Toby likes me very much.” 

“That’s okay. It sometimes takes a little while to get to know people. Especially when Toby has already been here for a year, hm?”

Annabelle nodded. Most of the class had been there a year already. They already had groups of friends, and they didn’t want hangers-on, especially not ones as awkward as Annabelle was. She preferred adult company.

* * *

“Fritton, did your daddy finish his car?” Toby’s voice cut through Annabelle’s reverie. She was sat on the wall in the playground, staring unseeingly across the field to the staff car park. 

She looked up to find Toby, flanked by a few of his friends, watching her. She shook her head. “Not yet. He’s been very busy with ex-ex-exeblutions at the gallery.” She stumbled over the longer word. 

“Sure he has,” Toby drawled. “Well, don’t forget to check the brakes when he’s done. Hate anything to happen to you both in such an old car.” He smirked, and Annabelle frowned. She didn’t understand the threat, but she didn’t like his tone.

“Everything alright over here?” Mrs. Wendy, one of the dinner ladies, sauntered over, a wide smile gracing her sunny features. Her freckles were a source of endless fascination to Annabelle, who spent many lunchtimes with her, patrolling the playground hand in hand.

“Fine, miss.” Toby winked at Annabelle and turned, leading his crowd away. Annabelle tried to wink back as she watched him go, but it was a skill she’d never picked up, and it wasn’t coming any easier now.

The school year was almost over. Her first year at school. It was tiring, and she'd started doing all the breakfast and after school clubs too because daddy was so busy. They were long days. 

The bell rang for the end of break and Annabelle - already tall for her age - towered over her classmates as they queued up to go back inside. 

Mr Hix caught her with a gentle hand on her back as he steered her towards the front desk. Everyone else was busy getting their books from their drawers; Annabelle eyed the teacher, confused. He reached for her sleeve, the blobby stripe of orange paint still stark against the navy cuff. 

“I have washed it. It just won't come out,” Annabelle assured him earnestly. 

“Where's your mother, Annabelle?”

She swallowed. “Daddy said she's not coming back.” She said, her voice shaking a little bit. “He said she's too angry to come back. That she wrecked her car.”

The teacher frowned. “Did she often wreck things when she was angry?”

Annabelle shrugged. “I don't really remember any more.” She pulled her soiled sleeve over her fingers. “Can I fetch my handwriting book now?”

Mr Hix nodded. “Yes, go.” He murmured. Annabelle studied him for a moment and turned away. 

* * *

“Daddy, why didn't mummy come home?” Eight year old Annabelle asked curiously. She was watching the landscape flash by with interest. They didn't take very many trips any more, and her weekends were usually spent watching children play sports on the pitches near their house while her father worked in the city at the gallery. She wanted to join in with the sports, but it was too expensive. 

Carnaby’s knuckles grew white on the steering wheel. “She couldn't, Annabelle. She's gone.”

“Gone where, though?”

“She drove her car over a bloody cliff, Annabelle. She's gone.”

Annabelle snapped her head around to stare at him. “What?” She squeaked. 

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but Annabelle could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears and her throat. She didn’t ask any questions about her mother after that.

* * *

Not a week later, she grew tired of Toby’s jibes. She now understood his sly sense of humour and the next time he backhandedly insulted her father, she slapped him soundly across the cheek, tears stinging in her eyes. 

Mr Hix wasn't her class teacher any more, but he still checked up on her all the time. He sat with her outside the headmaster’s office, holding her hands. She had a new jumper, because she'd grown out of the old one, but this one had green paint on the elbow.   
He didn't say anything to her. Just squeezed her fingers periodically. She smiled thinly at him, and wondered what would happen next. 

Carnaby never raised a finger against his daughter, but he'd torn up a few of her artworks and smashed some of her belongings. Annabelle supposed everyone needed an outlet. She started drawing and writing in notebooks that she hid in plain sight on the bookshelf, that she saved up her pocket money to buy - and she got pocket money alright, for doing the housework. The more she did, the more she got. It was easy to do a lot of housework and sneak out to the shops when her dad worked weekends over an hour away from the house, and her dad had never noticed or torn up her journals. 

Annabelle loved her father. He worked very hard to look after them both with money, and he was such a good caretaker for the artwork he displayed and sold. He decorated their house with old, classic bits of furniture and regularly had people working on the car, making sure it was roadworthy. He might not have a lot of time, Annabelle reflected, but he used his time to look after them. He might not have been at the school play, where she played the secondary role to huge applause from Mr Hix. And he might not have remembered to pay for the school trip to the National Gallery, but that was okay - she didn't need a new notebook for a while and it wasn't an expensive trip. She paid it herself. Sometimes he even forgot to pack her lunches, if he was distracted by a big deal. But Annabelle was good at sandwiches. Dinners were a bit more of a problem, but she managed. She remembered being very proud of her first beans on toast, even if the pan was very hard to clean afterwards. 

* * *

When Annabelle was ten, she remembered poring over a letter from school. It was addressed to her dad, but he often forgot to open them, so she'd opened it herself. 

It was about her options for next year, and Mr Hix had written it. She supposed he'd probably written all of them. It said some nice things about her progress at school and how well she was doing with literacy and art, and suggested some high schools she might like to apply to. 

Annabelle pondered for a moment, but she didn't think any of them were close enough to her house to walk to. 

The next day, she took her letter to Mr Hix to ask him. 

“Are there any buses?” She asked. He considered her for a moment. 

“Does your dad work at the gallery that early in the morning?” He asked finally, absent-mindedly scratching at the splash of red paint on her upper arm. Her hand crept to cover the yellow blob on her forearm before he noticed it. 

“No, but he does really late nights, so he's tired in the mornings,” Annabelle explained. “He works very hard.”

Mr Hix regarded her for a moment. “So there’s no one home when you get in from school? Do you ever see him?”

Annabelle shrugged. “At weekends, I see him when he leaves and when he gets home. And I sometimes get to go with him when he goes somewhere to discuss a deal, so we get to go in the car somewhere new.”

Mr Hix frowned. “Have you thought about boarding schools, Annabelle?”

She frowned up at him, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “Like, living at school?” She asked. “What for?”

* * *

A week later, Annabelle remembered getting another letter. This one was official-looking. She opened the creamy envelope, fascinated by the blue crest. 

“Cheltenham Ladies College.” She read. _Dear Mr Fritton. We are pleased to inform you that following a recommendation from your daughter’s primary school, we would like to offer her a place here at Cheltenham Ladies College. Our high school is a high-performing academic establishment with a range of sports also available. Our teaching standards are among the best in the country, with small class sizes and consistently high league table placement. There are a variety of boarding options; please see the enclosed leaflet with fee breakdowns attached. We look forward to your confirmation or otherwise of your daughter’s attendance by no later than 30 June._

Annabelle clutched the letter. She didn't want to give it to her father in case he tore it. 

“Cheltenham?” Carnaby raised an eyebrow. “Cheltenham want you?”

Annabelle nodded. “I can live there, daddy, so you don't have to worry about me any more. I can just come home at weekends.”

“You were going to a boarding school anyway, Annabelle, and for full terms. Just not this one.” He paused a moment, then smiled. “This is probably better. St Trinian’s is after all a detention centre in all but name.”

Annabelle frowned. “So why was I going there?” She asked. 

“Because you needed to go to a boarding school, and I know the headmistress,” Carnaby replied grimly. “Let me see those fees.”

Less than two hours later, Annabelle was a confirmed full-time boarding pupil for the coming school year at Cheltenham Ladies College, and was on her way to get her uniform. She wanted to ask why she couldn’t come home at weekends, but her father seemed distant and distracted, so she supposed now wasn’t the time.

* * *

Pulling up outside the school in September was daunting. It was much older, and many times bigger, than her primary school. Annabelle gulped and adjusted her hat. 

“No boys. No more Toby.” She reminded herself quietly. 

“Have a good term, Annabelle.” Her father smiled serenely at her, making no move to get out of the car. She smiled confusedly at him. 

“Oh, do you have a meeting, daddy?” She asked. 

“Yes, I need to get back and get the gallery open before the art dealer arrives.” He glanced at his watch. 

Annabelle let herself out of the car and walked around to the boot, which popped. She heaved out her suitcase and slammed it shut again. The car took off almost immediately, costing her in a fine layer of gravel dust, and she waved, blinking away the tears she could feel burning her eyes. 

* * *

Annabelle’s first week at Cheltenham was busy, and exhausting, and fun. She'd been able to try some real sports, rather than primary school sports class, and had found she was a bit of a natural at netball and hockey, although her tennis was incredibly poor. She had impressed the art teacher, who wanted her to try watercolours, and the English teacher, who had already invited her to join the school newsletter team. She struggled with the maths, which was at a much higher level than she'd learned in the past, but otherwise, she was settling into classes. 

Her dorm mates were fun too. Two of them had been at the school since they were very little: Hannah loved art like Annabelle did, and she was very intrigued about the Fritton Galley; and Verity was on the hockey team and she promised Annabelle could watch their next training session. Then there was Ethel, who was new like Annabelle. She was very good at maths and science, and she'd got a scholarship because of it. She promised Annabelle she'd help with the maths homework. 

They had a bathroom between the four of them, and they spent a lot of time lounging in the corridor, chatting to girls from other dorm rooms. In all, Annabelle found she never had no-one to sit with at meals or in classes; she always recognised someone, even day boarders, and she loved how many people there were to talk to. And the food! She’d never tried so many different meals.

Annabelle was blown away by the running track at Cheltenham. It was red, just like on the Olympics, and huge. The stands were empty and nestled in the middle of the track was a whole lot of sports equipment. Her sports class were lining up for 100m sprints. Annabelle wasn't a very fast runner, but she supposed there would be others who were the same. She lined up with them, tugging her skirt down a bit further, and ran for all she was worth when the starting gun rang out. She reached the line in fourth place of twenty-two, just a few metres behind Verity, who grinned at her. “Nice run, Annabelle!” She held up a hand for a high five and Annabelle, panting, hit it, grinning back. 

But her favourite part was the long distance running. She could jog around the track for hours, longer than any of her classmates had the patience for, just thinking. 

When October half term rolled around, Annabelle found herself sat in the entryway on her suitcase. Carnaby was late. She was the only boarder who hadn't seen her dad since term started, and he still wasn't here. 

“I'm sorry, he's probably just been caught up with a client at the gallery,” She told the waiting receptionist earnestly, swallowing her tears. 

“Don't worry, chick. Some boarders stay here in the half term breaks.” She smiled up at Annabelle and continued to shuffle her papers. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Carnaby finally pulled up almost an hour later. 

“Daddy!” Annabelle ran to him and hugged him tightly. He chuckled. 

“Sorry I'm late. Closing a big deal.” He prised her off. “Good term?”

“Yes, Daddy, I love it here.” Annabelle beamed at him. He pinched her cheek, and then her side, and frowned. 

“Goodness, darling, what have they been feeding you? You're getting chubby.” He told her, and then turned back to his car. “Come on then.”

Annabelle frowned, and turned to drag her suitcase out of the school reception. She waved to the lady behind the desk, forcing herself to smile. The stories she'd had to tell him died on her lips, and the ride home was a silent one. 

* * *

Annabelle wasn't sure where it had all gone downhill, but it was some time after that first glorious term. 

She fell into a routine. 

She was usually the first in her dorm to wake in the morning - none of the others were morning people, but she'd got up early to prepare her lunch for the school day and walk there by herself for many years - and so she'd climb quietly down from her top bunk and throw on her sports kit and run down to the track. She'd usually get in between six and ten laps before the usual rising time, and she'd be back in the dorms in time to shower first. She felt herself getting stronger every day and her run set her up mentally for the day to come - but it was an antisocial habit. It meant she was the first to breakfast every morning and had time to spare before class. She spent that time in her dorm, drawing, or in the art classroom. 

Then she'd have a full day of classes, followed by practice for the netball or hockey teams, or the newspaper club, or the art club. She'd go straight to dinner and relax afterwards, writing in her journal and doing her homework. She loved everything she did, and she loved being busy, and her grades got better and better - but she was less and less involved in life with the other girls. 

She got her own hockey stick at Christmas, from her dad. She was very pleased with it and carried it proudly into the dorm on the first day back. 

“What's that?” Verity asked, scoffing. 

“My new hockey stick. I got it from daddy for Christmas.” She replied proudly, holding it out for the girls to see. 

“You don't know anything about hockey brands, do you?” Verity smirked. “That's cheap tat, that is.”

Annabelle felt herself colour with anger, but she shook her head. “Daddy wouldn't. He said it was a good one because he's proud of me.” She turned away and tucked it reverently under her bed. None of the girls replied. 

The following year, lots of the girls got new, fancier phones. Annabelle didn't. She didn't mind; she knew they were very expensive, and all her friends were at school anyway, she didn't know anyone else to talk to except her dad, so she didn't need anything posh. But she stopped taking her old, heavy phone out around the other girls after the fourth snide comment. 

She did get an mp3 player from her dad, though. For her running. It wasn’t a fancy one, but it began a love affair with music that had Annabelle desperately wishing she could play an instrument or sing; a trip to the music department and a little experimentation made it clear that it wasn’t a natural skill, but Annabelle was rarely found without her earphones in after that.

In her second year, after a summer spent outside on her own, running and throwing and catching and practicing her hockey, and colouring a healthy tan, she beat Verity at a sprint for the first time. 

Verity punched her. 

Annabelle’s first split lip was more painful than she could have imagined, and hot tears streamed from both eyes, the salt stinging the cut even more.

She didn't run so fast the next time.

When she called her father to tell him, tearfully, about the incident, she found out he’d hired a PA. She sounded stern and no-nonsense, and she assured Annabelle impatiently that she would ask Carnaby to call her back, but his next free moment would be Thursday afternoon - two days’ time. Then she promptly hung up. 

Annabelle stared at her phone, mouth hanging open, and fresh tears filled her eyes. 

The cut cracked every morning for over a week, and Annabelle ruined three pillowcases with it. Her lip swelled and purpled, and she stayed even quieter than usual, trying not to talk and aggravate it. 

On sports day, just a few days after it had healed up, Verity was chosen to run the sprint, and Annabelle the 1500m. They both won, and Annabelle congratulated Verity enthusiastically, hoping to smooth over the fallout, but she got the feeling Verity wasn't pleased Annabelle had won her race. 

Annabelle had always been quite a lonely child, and it was a tough habit to break - when the girls didn't want to spend time with her, she didn't mind, and sometimes when anyone did, she'd slope away. She missed her own space, having the house to herself while her dad was at work. So when Verity didn’t jump at the chance to make up and socialise again, she didn’t push it.

They started a more advanced type of algebra after Christmas in second year. Annabelle liked algebra better than normal maths; she supposed it was because there were letters involved. She still preferred English, but maths with letters instead of numbers was better, and it was just like a code really. 

Ethel didn't understand it. Annabelle offered to help her, but Ethel turned her back, and continued to sigh and scribble as she tried to work it out herself. Annabelle stared at her, surprised. “Just to make up for all the times you've helped me out?” She tried, but Ethel ignored her. 

After that, Hannah was her only ally in the dorm room. They chatted about art and art history, and went to art club together. Annabelle had found an affinity for watercolours, just as her art teacher had predicted, but Hannah produced the most incredible, lifelike pencil sketches. Her portraits looked ready to wink at you or walk right out of the page.

Their friendship lasted until the end of the year, when Hannah stopped talking to Annabelle too. 

“Hannah!” Annabelle called, hurrying after her. 

“Go away, Annabelle.” Hannah clutched the roll of paper she was holding closer to her chest. 

“Why, what's the matter?”

“Verity told me what you said. If you didn't like my artwork, you should tell me, not everyone else.” Hannah glared at her. 

“What? I love your artwork!” Annabelle cried. “I never said that!”

“Just because your daddy’s got some shitty gallery with old crappy paintings in it doesn't make you an expert, Fritton. You think you're so special but you're not. And your paintings suck.”

Hannah turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Annabelle open-mouthed and teary behind her. 

Annabelle withdrew into herself after that. None of the girls she shared her room with would speak to her, and her dad was usually too busy to call. She focused on her classes and spent time with teachers - and Cheltenham rewarded her studious nature. Music and running became her escapes, and she drifted into her own world, and she often didn’t hear her own name for weeks at a time, for Verity had got the whole school calling her ‘Fritton’.

Verity had explosive bouts of angry violence throughout their second year. It could take anything - a cancelled TV show, a snide comment, a poor grade, or a missing belonging were the favourites - and she’d suddenly have one of the three girls pinned to the dorm room wall with one arm twisted behind their backs, or she’d have thrown her phone across the room. She went through four that year alone. Once, she overturned her dinner tray and stormed out of the nearly-empty dining hall because she’d been late to dinner and they’d run out of stuffing.

Annabelle thought that Verity’s moods might re-ignite the friendship between her, Hannah and Ethel. Unfortunately, she was wrong. Her fear of Verity caused her to withdraw; they stuck closer to her, trying to keep her happy all the time, giving her reasons to smile and papering over any awkward moments before she hit the roof. It was sickening to watch two strong, independent girls become shadows of themselves, almost in service to Verity and her darker side. If anything, they pushed her away more, because no-one seemed to light Verity’s incredibly short fuse as effectively as Annabelle did.

It got worse in their third year. They all took some tests to see how well they might do in GCSEs in each subject, to help with their options choices, and Annabelle scored very highly. But that didn't gain her any friends. She took all the subjects available for GCSE except music, and took some of her exams a year or two early. 

It was during one of her sports practicals in third year, which counted for her actual GCSE, that she overheard Verity talking on her phone in the changing room. She obviously thought she was alone, because there wasn’t usually a class at this time, but Annabelle was running alone for this particular practical. It was about her personal ability, not her teamwork.

“Verity, darling, your teachers are concerned. That’s as good a reason as any to at least talk to this therapist, hm?”

“Daddy, I don’t need a therapist, everyone here is just so infuriatingly stupid -”

“Hm, well, your teachers seem to think that it’s the smart ones that upset you, darling.”

Annabelle slipped quietly out of the door, feeling more than a little homesick. She hadn’t heard from her father since she left a message with his PA about taking some exams early. She hoped he was proud of her, and she hoped that he’d be as concerned as Verity’s dad clearly was if she began to struggle.

After the October half term, Verity was noticeably calmer when they all returned to school. The phone call Annabelle had overheard came back to her, and she realised the therapist must have been behavioural. 

After a week or so, Hannah and Ethel began to relax. Annabelle thought this was a good thing; they’d been so on their toes around Verity that they sometimes made it worse.

Unfortunately, everyone began to relax a little too much, and Verity didn’t take well to banter. In the dining hall, someone made a comment about Verity’s father’s handling of one of the prisons - Annabelle couldn’t remember the details, but she knew he was an important government person to do with the detention system. Verity clenched her tray so tight, her knuckles went white. One of them cracked. She loosed an enraged shout and threw the tray across the room, narrowly missing a teacher who Annabelle thought was from the music department despite looking like a mad scientist. Then - teeth clenched in that typical Verity snarl - she slapped the speaker across the cheek with a sound like a whip crack. “Verity!” Ethel tugged at her arm, but Verity shrugged her off none-too-gently, and Ethel landed on the bench with a sob. All around them, snickers built up.

Before she’d realised what she was doing, Annabelle was standing up. “Leave her alone.” She told the room at large. “She’s much better, and that was a mean comment to make.”

Everyone stared up at her. Then she felt a stinging sensation on one cheek and her head snapped to the side, and her lip split for the second time in two years. Not a second later came a sharp pain in her nose and gushing blood. Annabelle didn’t remember anything else, but she woke up in the infirmary, bulky bandages over her nose and an obscured view out of one eye. She sat up.

“There you are, dear,” The kindly nurse bustled over. “A nice red cheek, split lip, black eye and sore nose. Not broken though, luckily. Just bled well.” She patted Annabelle’s shoulder. “You’ll be free to go in a few hours.” Annabelle flopped back down onto the pillows. Her head was throbbing.

After that, Annabelle avoided all her dorm mates. She wasn’t sure why she’d stood up for Verity, and she was even less sure why that had made Verity smack her, but instead of thinking too hard about it, she began to get up to run earlier in the mornings. She waited outside the dining room until breakfast opened and after a week, they started to let her in early, since she didn’t like the cooked option anyway and always chose cereal. She’d go to the art classroom after that to fill in her journal, and wait to shower until the dorm was empty and everyone was at breakfast. 

In the evening, she did her homework in the common room, which not very many people used because it was nowhere near the dorms and had nothing in it that the dorms didn’t have. She’d slip into dinner as it was finishing, and go back to the dorms either after the girls were likely all asleep, or while they were all out at some social event. There were regular film nights, discos, planning sessions, school council meetings and such that Verity - and therefore Hannah and Ethel - threw themselves into with gusto, all hoping to make prefect or head girl when the time came. Annabelle avoided them like the plague.

During the summer between third and fourth year, her father’s PA took her to the dentist. He recommended braces to straighten her teeth. Annabelle had never really paid any attention to what she looked like, and she wasn’t keen on having them, but the PA agreed without consulting her and made an appointment to have them fitted two weeks later. Annabelle spent a miserable summer with an aching jaw and a pounding head, watching as her teeth - millimetre by millimetre - moved into straighter and more even positions. By the time she went back to school, she’d more or less forgotten about the braces. They’d been tightened a couple of weeks before, but they weren’t so painful now, so they were just bits of metal on her teeth. Plenty of other girls had them, too, so Annabelle never thought about it.

She couldn’t avoid the girls on the first day back, settling back into dorm life and unpacking. It took only minutes for Verity to notice the braces.

“Well well well, the elusive Fritton. Good summer?” She asked.

Unsure whether it was a trick question, Annabelle turned slowly, hesitating. GCSE results day, where she received grade A*s in PE, Art and English and an A in history, flashed through her mind. “Er, not bad, thank you. You?” She asked carefully.

Verity’s answering smile was as feral at Toby’s, but toothier. “Ah. Braces.” She smirked at Hannah and Ethel, who flanked her. “Not a good look for anyone, but especially not you, Fritton.”

Annabelle looked at the ground, took a deep breath, and said simply, “I won’t have them forever.” Then she turned and carried on unpacking calmly.

“And still, you have that awful phone!” Verity laughed, snatching it up off the bed. “It weighs a tonne!”

“Give that back.” Annabelle demanded quietly, holding her hand out. 

Verity laughed. “Don’t know why you’d want it back anyway.” She said spitefully, tossing it at Annabelle. She caught it by reflex, and Verity - who was clearly expecting her to miss - suddenly looked like she’d sucked on a lemon.

When she punched Annabelle, she was too surprised to react further than stumbling backwards. She stared at Verity, trying to decide what the trigger was.

An hour later, no-one had mentioned the incident but Annabelle’s mouth was really quite sore. She discovered in the bathroom that - as well as her already-loose teeth aching from the punch - the metal had cut all the inside of her lips. 

And so went her fourth year at Cheltenham. She aimed to avoid her dorm mates, but Verity targeted her more and more often. Annabelle began to wonder what she’d done wrong, and even whether Verity was using her to prevent her violent outbursts everywhere else.   
Annabelle did well on the netball team, but hockey practice with Verity became more and more like entering hell twice a week. It came to a head just before Christmas, when her revision was beginning to get to her. During practice, Verity’s stick - which shouldn’t have been above her waist - somehow ended up around Annabelle’s throat, hooking and crushing. It brought tears of pain to her eyes as she gasped for breath, feeling rather than hearing the crunching sounds her esophagus was making. It took her a few minutes to be able to get a painless breath in after the stick had gone, and she had an angry bruise that lasted days. Someone started a rumour she’d tried to hang herself, and Annabelle was subjected to checks of her wrists every few days, while students made crosses over their eyes every time she passed.

Her braces were tightened every few weeks or so, and the dentist was pleased with the progress of her teeth, if not her lips. He just couldn’t understand why the metal was rubbing so badly. Annabelle decided not to tell him that her teeth were moving so well because they were near-permanently loose and rattled, and simply assured him that her lips weren’t bothering her. For the most part, that was true; what bothered her more was the food that got stuck in the metal, which she was incredibly self-conscious about and which Verity saw fit to watch for and comment on whenever she saw Annabelle eating.

She took GCSEs in Geography, Religious Studies, Business Studies, Drama and French in January, with everyone from lower sixth form who needed resits. She’d spent the Christmas break revising hard and practising lines, and hadn’t seen her father once, but the PA was mellowing and - it turned out - spoke French fluently, so she’d gotten plenty of practice. Her results came back with a range through A* to B, and Annabelle tucked the sheet gently away in her most recent journal and texted her father. He forgot to reply, but she knew he was proud of her. In the summer term, she took her GCSEs in German, Spanish, Design & Technology, ICT and Chemistry. ICT and DT were both coursework-only, and Annabelle spent a long time on it, using it as a good reason to avoid the dorm.

At the end of the year, for the first time, Annabelle’s year group were allowed to go to the end-of-year party that Cheltenham shared with the boys from the campus across town. She wasn’t going to go, but she could find no good reason not to, and she was tired of hiding away. When her English teacher asked her if she was going, she shrugged half-heartedly and agreed that she might as well.

From the moment she put on her dress and heard Verity’s comment on how frumpy it was, she knew she’d made a mistake. By the time the coach arrived at the venue, she was desperately wishing she’d just hidden in the art room or gone to bed or even - even - pissed Verity off so she ended up in the infirmary. After the meal, she felt so sick she’d gone outside for some fresh air, but all she’d found was a game she didn’t really understand but seemed to involve a bottle and a lot of kissing. 

Back inside, Verity taunted and teased her, gathering a crowd of boys, one of whom rescued her and took her back to the music. They danced and spun and he confided that the punch was spiked and the room tilted sickeningly, but it was still the best she’d felt all night.  
After a sound telling-off from all the staff and replacement punch, the students were all getting bored, and Annabelle became a target again. Dares were thrown, bets were made, and suddenly she was being whisked through corridors and round corners faster than her eyes could keep up with, her head still spinning from her first alcoholic beverages - she’d lost count of how many. Cold floor on her knees, gagging and choking, a cry of pain that wasn’t her own - chants of ‘cannibal, cannibal’ -

She blocked out as many memories of the party as she could, for as long as she could. The spiked punch made that easier than she expected, and the fuzziness in her head the next day made the taunts of the other students wash off her like water from oil slick. The quiet journey home in her father’s car was a relief, rather than a source of distress.

Annabelle saved up her usual pocket money - given to her by the PA over summer, rather than her father - until the day she had her braces taken off and a retainer fitted. It made her lisp, so she’d already determined that she’d only wear it at night while back at school. The relief at having (surprisingly nice, straight) bare teeth was almost impossible to contain, and Annabelle celebrated by buying herself a tennis racket and pack of tennis balls, and practicing against the external wall of the house. She’d chosen tennis as a weak sport to improve on in her sport GCSE the year previous, and now she wanted to carry on. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do over summer, after all.

The following year, Ethel didn’t come to school. Annabelle didn’t ask to begin with, but eventually she couldn’t hold back her curiousity. Hannah - who still didn’t speak to her - shrugged; Verity, however, took great pleasure in explaining that Ethel had lost her scholarship because her grades had dropped so low, and her family couldn’t afford the fees. Annabelle knew they weren’t that low, and chose to ignore Verity’s scoffing when it came to not being able to afford things. Verity had been insufferable since Christmas; her dad had been promoted to minister of education and with his pay rise, she’d received new hockey kit, a new phone, and a new laptop. She spent every waking moment rubbing everyone’s noses in it and threatening to report people to her father, who she now considered the school’s personal security force.

While Ethel hadn’t been a friend to Annabelle since her first year, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

While everyone else was studying hard, Annabelle - awkward and gangly after another growth spurt, and make-up free because she hadn't spent her summer holidays with any other teenagers to learn about it - only had Maths, Physics and Biology left to do. She already had 14 other GCSE passes in the bag, having received her last set of results over summer. She sat all three subjects in January. What she’d do for the rest of the year was beyond her, but she was ready to do them, and finishing her pre-16 education with a lot of art and writing sounded alright really, if they’d let her. As she left her last exam, stretching luxuriously, flanked by older students and smiling, Annabelle found herself face to face with Verity.

“Cannibal.” She greeted coldly, blonde hair pulled back in some kind of ridiculous, lumpy chiffon.

“Verity,” Annabelle answered warily, stopping just out of arm’s reach. 

“So, now what are you going to do?” Verity asked, grinning impishly.

Annabelle shrugged cautiously. “I’m not sure.”

“But you’re finished, right? No more GCSEs to do?”

Annabelle had no idea where Verity had found that out, but she shook her head slowly. What was the point in lying?

“Then you don’t need to be here any more, right?”

Annabelle stared at Verity, trying to understand what she was getting at. “Where else would I go?” She asked.

“Not my problem.” Verity smirked cockily and turned, marching away.

Annabelle made her way slowly back to the dorm, a sick feeling of anticipation building within her. Something was going on, Verity had a plan, she just knew it.

In the dorm, she found Verity’s belongings scattered all around the room. Some of them were broken, including her brand new hockey stick, which was snapped in two places and had some lethal-looking splinters poking out. Her mouth fell open. Hannah wasn’t there, and suddenly she began to piece together the scale of what she was seeing, and backed hurriedly out of the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. She went to the common room and sat on the edge of a sofa there, tapping her knees nervously.

Half an hour later, Verity’s favourite teacher and the hockey team coach, Miss Bagstock - who for some reason doted on Verity and managed to remain frosty with Annabelle despite not actually disliking her - marched into the common room, Verity in floods of tears behind her.  
“Annabelle, explain yourself!” Miss Bagstock demanded.

Drawing on her A* in drama, Annabelle leaned back easily on the sofa. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t think I had to be in my Maths lesson any more.” She said innocently.

“Not classes. Your treatment of Verity.”

Annabelle sighed inwardly. All the teachers knew what Verity was like. “I don’t understand, miss.”

“Her belongings are scattered and broken! And these bruises are shameful!”

“Bruises?” Annabelle pushed herself upright.

Verity drew back her blazer sleeve to reveal dark purple bruises in the shape of fingers on her forearm. Annabelle gasped.

“I- I didn’t-”

“Verity, go back to your dorm.”

“But miss, I-”

“Now.”

Annabelle stared after Verity as she tugged down her sleeve and turned away.

“Miss, I swear…”

Miss Bagstock sighed heavily. “I know, Annabelle. Her own hand put those bruises there and probably ruined the dorm as well. But with her father’s new position, and her current lack of qualifications, I can’t be seen to do nothing.” 

Annabelle felt a sudden, dawning horror. “You’re telling me she’s going to win. You’re telling me that I’m done with school and I have to leave.”

The common room, empty but for the two of them, was silent. Annabelle waited for a disagreement she knew wasn’t coming, and then stood, shaking slightly. “Fine. I’m going to pack. But will you please call my father and tell that this is my decision, and not that I did these things? If we’re lying to people now, lie to him. Tell him I’m being bullied, or something. Tell him I can’t cope with the pressure. Tell him whatever you like. But not that I did this, when I did not.”

She turned on her heel, not waiting for a response, and marched up to the dorm to pack. She tried not to think about the fact that she’d just given a teacher an order.

Verity and Hannah were there, Verity sniffling, as they both cleared away the mess. 

“Fritton, how could you?” Hannah asked shrilly as the door clicked closed, alerting her to Annabelle’s presence.

Annabelle ignored her and began emptying her belongings into her suitcase. She left her school uniform behind.

* * *

“You know, Annabelle, you should stand up to bullies, not let them walk all over you. You’re lucky we’re getting a fee refund, or I’d have left you to fight it out.”

Annabelle ignored her father, watching the landscape flash by the window.

“What now then, hm? You can’t doss at home.”

Annabelle turned to him. “I could come to the gallery with you,” She suggested desperately. “I haven’t been since I was tiny. It’d be nice to see it again.”

He was already shaking his head. “No, I don’t need the distraction and I don’t need a member of staff. You’ll have to find another school.”

“But I have all my GCSEs.”

Carnaby had nothing to say to that. Looking back, Annabelle wasn’t even sure he understood what it meant.

“We’ll find you a school you can stay at until you’re 18. Like this one was.”

There was a long silence.

* * *

It took less than three days for Carnaby to have his PA organise Annabelle’s new uniform and make an appointment at the school. In those three days, Annabelle saw her father twice, and both times he was in a rush and short-tempered. Annabelle caught him muttering about having to change plans.

She didn’t even have chance to unpack before they were off again. He made her change into her uniform first, and although it wasn’t Cheltenham’s, she supposed it could have been a lot worse. In fact, she looked quite smart.

“Aren’t we just looking around the school, daddy?”

“The meeting’s a formality, darling.” Her father drawled distractedly. “The place is yours.”

“But…what if I don’t like it?”

Carnaby sighed. “You haven’t got many options, have you?”

Annabelle remained silent at that, staring out the window as she usually did in the car with her father. 

His serene smile as they passed the skull next to the school’s sign, and the smouldering car in the grounds, only served to confuse and upset her more. Did he not realise she didn’t need a school until September? Did he not remember her many GCSEs, grade B and higher? Where was he bringing her, and why was he in such a rush - couldn’t it wait until February half term, at least?

The car rolled smoothly down the driveway, looking in much better condition than the school itself, and Annabelle took comfort in that, at least. If nothing else, she could take comfort in the fact that she had more GCSEs than the average UK student, and probably more than all these tearaways combined, and unlike them, she had a hard-working, successful daddy waiting for her at home. 

The closer they got to the school, the more she thought that might be all that got her through.


	2. Before Annabelle

Kelly sighed as she watched, from the top step, the usual chaos of arrivals at St. Trinian’s. There were cars and buses and bikes everywhere. Posh Totties were air kissing, emos glowering, chavs arguing, and first years screaming. It looked like they’d already flattened a flowerbed, in fact - maintaining tradition by undoing the long-suffering gardener’s summer of work. 

_My duties don’t start until everyone’s in the dorm,_ she reminded herself, itching to whistle and put a tiny bit of well-disguised order into the chaos. She headed indoors, through the wood-paneled entrance hall, as Taylor set up the metal detectors and sealed the contraband box ready for the first students to enter and be checked. The chav looked up when Kelly passed and opened her mouth, but - thankfully - seemed to think better of it. 

As she passed the headmistress’s office, Kelly’s mind drifted to the first day of term two years ago.

* * *

_“You wanted to see me, miss?” Kelly lingered in the doorway._

_“I did, girlie. Come on in, sit.”_

_Kelly walked cautiously into the headmistress’s office, checking furtively for trip wires, suspended buckets and other favourite tricks. The girls may have only just arrived, but Kelly knew that meant nothing - and if she was honest, she wouldn’t put it past Miss Fritton to have put some of her own in anyway._

_She wondered whether she was going to be bollocked or congratulated on her latest (illegal) scheme; you never could tell with Camilla Fritton. She perched on the edge of the sofa, hands neatly folded - the picture of elegance and sophistication._

_“Tell me about the tribes.”_

_Well, that was unexpected. Kelly lifted a dark, perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, but showed no other emotion._

_“The first years are the biggest and grubbiest group. None of them have found their style yet and some of the more immature ones from second year stick with them too. This year’s cohort seem to have an unhealthy interest in… um… chemistry._

_“Then there’s the chavs. Don’t call them that to their faces though. All nails and attitude. Sworn enemies to the emos - emotionally unstables - perhaps because they hide their emotions behind their loud voices and anger issues._

_“The emos are petitioning for coffins to sleep in, which I thought was more a goth thing, but they say not. They’re all crazy makeup and I count more piercings on Andrea than the chavs all put together. Then again, one of the chavs came back with an ankle bracelet on from a summer of careless lawbreaking, so there’s no real comparison._

_“Posh Totty is growing, which I’m not sure I like. Using your assets is one thing, but not at the expense of all else. And their makeup corner is expanding beyond their beds._

_“Polly’s doing really well with the geeks. They’ve learned a lot of new skills this last year, and Polly tells me they’ve kept in touch and practiced over the summer. To say they’re new, they really hold their own against the other tribes._

_“Then there seems to be this new group, not named yet. They’re just emerging. They’re all very spiritual and nature-y - Celia becomes more like Luna Lovegood every day, but it suits her. I’m sure they’ll find a name and their strengths soon enough.”_

_Kelly finished her narrative and looked up; Miss Fritton was regarding her with a somewhat feral smile._

_“Very observant, girlie. And where do you fit?”_

_Kelly frowned. “I’m just me, Miss. I don’t need a group identity.” She had a sudden moment of panic, wondering if she was about to be told to join a group or leave the school._ Which would I choose? _She wondered._

_“No, you don’t. You’re independent, and strong, and you understand not only the groups, but how they fit together. You’ve transformed this place since you joined us.” She regarded Kelly for a moment, and the girl lifted her chin, defiant under the scrutiny. “I’m making you Head Girl.”_

_Kelly froze. “Miss, I’m only in my fourth year.”_

_“I’m aware, girlie. But your peers are leaders only to their tribe - some of them successful, some not so much. But there remains the problem. JJ was good, but she was too invested in Posh Totty to give it her best. You, on the other hand… you have the leadership, but no one to lead. I’m giving you someone to lead, Kelly.”_

_Kelly started at the use of the name. Her calm facade hid her racing thoughts - one of which was definitely that this was the most serious conversation she’d ever had with the usually-drunk headmistress._

_“Thank you,” she forced out as a silver ‘Head Girl’ crest was pushed into her hand. “Miss, some of these girls have no idea who I am.”_

_“Nonsense, girlie. You don’t fit into a tribe. That means all of them will know who you are.”_

_Kelly swallowed._

* * *

_“Polly!” Kelly clenched her fist as she called her best - and only - friend down an unusually quiet corridor. The metal corners of the pin badge dug into her palm._

_“Hey.” The geek pushed her wire glasses back up her nose as she jogged over. “I’m running late -”_

_“It’ll have to wait.” Kelly cut across her, pulling her into an empty classroom and checking there was no bucket on the door before closing it behind them. She opened her fist under Polly’s nose, and she gasped, then smiled delightedly._

_“You? Oh Kelly, that’s wonderful!”_

_“Is it?” She snapped. “Like the uppers are going to listen to me.” She dropped her hand and avoided Polly’s gaze, aware that this underconfidence was out of character._

_“You have no idea how people see you, do you?” Polly asked quietly. “Kelly, you’re so…together. I’m the only one who ever sees you vulnerable, and only on your terms. Your hair and makeup and clothes, your independence, makes you seem untouchable - unflappable. You have no loyalty to any group but you’re not selfish - you’ll help them all. You have the respect of every student and most of the staff in this school, and I can’t think of anyone better. I’m sure the girls will agree, but it won’t matter if you don’t let them see through your confidence.”_

_“I’m not confident.” Kelly shook her head, the badge once again clenched in her fist._

_“But you act it, and you act it well.”_

_Kelly thought about it for a moment. “You really think I can do this?”_

_Polly nodded, her two knots of hair - loose from running - bouncing comically. “I think it will be the making of you, Kelly Jones. And a few others too, no doubt.”_

_Kelly blinked, and then hugged her, hard. Polly, taken aback, squeezed her fondly._

* * *

_Kelly stepped into the dorm and pulled the door shut behind her. She watched as the odds for the latest bet doubled, and money changed hands, quick as a flash. It was all quite sophisticated really._

_She considered the level of noise for a moment, discounted shouting as an option, and put her thumb and forefinger to her lips, emitting a shrill whistle._

_The whole room immediately stilled._

_“Welcome back to St. Trinian’s. I’m Kelly Jones’ for those that don’t know, and I’m your Head Girl this year. That means I’m here to support you all. Any problems, ideas or plans come through me, and I’ll keep you all up to date with the school’s events. Any questions?”_

_Kelly thought her brief speech went quite well, considering that the room was still quiet._

  
_“Aren’t you, like, a fourth year or summat?” One of the older chavs asked._

_“I am,” Kelly replied coolly. “I’m sure you won’t hold that against me, though. I can drive as well as the next person and my alcohol tolerance is surprisingly high.”_

_Someone laughed and then the room erupted into cheers. Kelly relaxed and caught a grinning Polly’s eye, taking in the thumbs-up and smiling minutely back._

_Once the cheers had died down a little, Kelly raised her voice again. “There are a few things I’d like to get started tonight, so I need each tribe to nominate a leader of sorts to work with me. You have half an hour. I need new students with me next door in the meantime.”_

_Kelly left, waiting in the doorway to the next room, which was much smaller. A trickle of first years joined her, and one older student she didn’t recognise._

_“Is anyone missing?” She asked the group. They glanced around at one another nervously and shook their heads. “Okay, welcome,” she said with a smile and glanced first at the eldest girl, taking in the loose, short tie, the short skirt and the converse. “Tell us about yourself,” she requested, phrasing it as a gentle demand._

_The girl shrugged, popping her chewing gum. “Got kicked out my last place, so my folks shipped me down here. Like what you’ve done with the place. I’m Courtney.”_

_Kelly nodded. “I’ll introduce you to Taylor. Think you’ll work well with her crew.” She turned back to the first years. “And you, girls?”_

_One by one, the first years - four of them - spoke up, giving their names. One from foster care, one from a group home, one with military parents who wanted stability for their daughter’s secondary education - Kelly bit her lip to hide her laugh at this - and one expelled from six primary schools._

_“Well, girls,” Kelly addressed them all. “I have a task for you. I think it will help you get settled with all the tribes in there. And perhaps…” Kelly glanced at the lone transfer student. “A more mature head to balance their ideas.” The new girl shrugged; Kelly took that as a ‘yes’ and forged on. “We get lots of transfers here who don’t settle in. I believe an… initiation of sorts would help. Nothing physically painful, girls, but something to introduce them to life here that will either scare them away for good or break them into a tribe.”_

_All the girls were staring at her with rapt attention. Kelly smiled to herself._

_“Well, this is your first task, girls. Come up with some ideas, discuss it with the older girls, use all the tribes’ strengths. Come to me with a plan before you test anything. Start with Tara and Tania, the twins. They’re first years that have moved up from lower school here so they know how it all works. Any questions? Go on then. Let me know if you need anything.”_

_Kelly held the door and they all dutifully filed out. “Courtney, just wait here a moment.”_

_Polly held the dormitory door open as the first years filed in again, all whispering to each other, and then glanced questioningly at Kelly, who beckoned her over. She was followed by Lauren - new purple streaks in her hair since last year, Olivia - fake eyelashes brushing her eyebows, Mackenzie - who was holding a penknife and had a chunky plastic band around her left ankle, and Lola - who in Kelly’s opinion looked vacant enough to be high._

_“Hey girls, come on in. Mackenzie, would you just introduce Courtney to Taylor and your crew please?”_

_Mackenzie looked the new girl up and down, raised her eyebrows, and walked away, calling, “Taylor, get here would ya?” Courtney followed, looking disinterested, but Kelly noticed the way her eyes roved over the beds she was passing and fixed on their destination._   
_Mackenzie was back a moment later, alone, and pulled the door shut behind her._

_Kelly appraised each girl in the room and nodded. “So, you’ve all been nominated or volunteered to speak for your tribe. Is anyone uncomfortable doing that?”_

_No one moved._

_“Alright, then. It’ll be easier for me to pass messages through you than to everyone at once,” Kelly said. “I’ll catch up with you all this week, now I know who you are.”_

_The room emptied slowly. Kelly took a deep breath and examined the room. It was tucked into the eaves, with skylights letting in the sun. It was maybe a quarter of the size of the dorm, and surprisingly clean. She smiled. This would be the head girl’s room for as long as the position was hers, she decided._

_“Kelly?”_

_Polly hadn’t left._

_“Hm?”_

_“You’ve got that look that you get when you’re plotting something,” Polly told her._

_“I’m moving in here,” Kelly told her. “It’s much better, closer to the dorms, everything.”_

_“What will happen to JJ’s room?”_

_Kelly shrugged. “Meeting room, I guess. Until I find another use for it.”_

_Polly looked on bemusedly. Kelly was already growing into her role and it was only day one._

* * *

Shaking herself back to the present, Kelly found herself outside the door to what had been her room for the last two years. The noise level, even all the way up here under the school’s eaves, was incredible, and Kelly threw herself on her bed with a sigh, allowing herself a final moment of relaxation, a final moment without responsibility.

Not five minutes later, she sat up and began to unpack.

* * *

Kelly took in the silence of the upper floors that was only ever achieved at a mealtime and relished it. Then she stood and clicked delicately to her bedroom door, heading downstairs to make her entrance, just like last year. This year, her heels were a little higher, and her skirt a little tighter. She descended to the entrance hall, then took the flight of stairs behind Beverley’s desk that lead down to the lower school and bar areas, and the little-used gym. Finally, she climbed the spiral staircase into the conservatory that served as the school’s dining room, emerging elegantly from the floor into a buzz of noise and stepping delicately off the staircase.

The tables closest to her fell silent, and the change in atmosphere clearly registered with other students, for it took only six seconds for the rest of the school to fall silent too. Even the table of teachers had hushed, and most were watching her. _New record,_ she congratulated herself.

“Good evening. I’m glad to see you’re all tucking in,” Kelly announced, projecting her voice across the room. “For those who don’t know, I’m Kelly Jones, Head Girl. If all new students could stay seated after their meal, I’ll chat to you properly. Everyone else, you know the drill - it’s Sunday tomorrow.”

A few of the older students exchanged smirks and Kelly saw Roxy, their resident rockstar, nod to four girls sat around her and grin. 

The noise gradually started up again as Kelly moved away from the staircase to consider the meal options, fingering the padlock on her choker thoughtfully. 

She finally slid into a spare seat with a chunk of lasagne, which looked at the very least less oily than the chili and the vegetable risotto, and smiled at Polly, whose eyes had been on her from the moment she walked in.

“I like the new look,” Polly complimented, and Kelly chuckled delicately.

“It’s hardly new, Pol, just a bit different. Should work wonders for the business profile this year.”

Polly laughed. “True, yeah,” she agreed. “Lucy’s coming along well too, so I reckon we could have three of us on international trading soon. Harriet’s all over the US already, she’s only third year. Could do with a few more like her.”

Kelly smiled. “So, Pol, how was your summer?”

* * *

It took Kelly very little time to work out who would be best deployed where for the year.

Chelsea wanted to be famous; she was collating the blackmail information, both for the school to extort with, and so she could manipulate her way onto people’s TVs and in front of camera lenses after her time at St. Trinian’s.

Celia wanted to get into marketing; Kelly set her up with Taylor to design branding for the sanitary items so they could hit supermarket shelves as well as more elite markets.

Taylor confided that she also wanted to branch into more risque products; Kelly hooked Celia up with Polly, and The Trinity Store was born - an online shop to rival Ann Summers.

Andrea wanted to be a singer; she refused to join the Banned, but Kelly found her an empty basement room and some help, and tasked them with creating a studio, both for Andrea to use privately and for them to rent out for further income.

Everyone had slotted back into the ventures that had grown into thriving well-oiled businesses over Kelly’s time at St. Trinian’s.

She found herself a car, and changed its colour and number plate as often as the garage on campus had the space and time to do so, just to keep their skills up. She drifted into the studio sometimes to play the electronic keyboard there - only when she was sure no one was listening. It became easier when Roxy left, suddenly, to go on tour - apparently she’d been head-hunted to tour as the warm up act to a famous girl band. 

She trained as hard as ever, and continued to practice her languages. She and Polly spoke almost exclusively in Arabic now; it was liberating.

And yet… Kelly was worried. The bursar had always been quiet, painfully so - she sometimes wondered if he was simply too afraid to resign, or perhaps too dependent on the alcohol to get another job. But this year he seemed more nervy than ever, and Kelly had noticed that some of the usual summer repairs hadn’t gone ahead this year. She had a funny feeling that their business account, with its healthy balance, might be needed; she just hoped it would be enough. After all, it was unlikely that the issue would be noted by the rest of the staff until their wages stopped being paid.


End file.
